


Happy Birthday

by Johniarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Death, Depression, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Grief, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never goes a year without celebrating Jim's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who just found out Jim Moriarty's BBC Canon Birthday is the same day as Reichenbach?

Jim wasn’t really one to celebrate his birthday, but that never stopped John. Every year he presented a weary, foul-tempered Jim Moriarty with cake, presents, and bourbon. He deserved as much, in John’s eyes - after a lifetime of being forgotten, of stalking the shadows, Jim needed to be remembered once in a while. This year’s gifts were painstakingly wrapped in fine gold wrapping paper and stacked on the table in the sitting room. Lingerie, art, books, puzzles… nothing too expensive, of course, but things Jim often found joy in.

The lingerie, though, was mostly for John’s use. He loved dressing up for Jim.

Today Jim’s planned celebrations were different than John intended, though he had no idea what circled through Jim’s mind. That nagging, dark thought that twisted and chanted and dug its nails into his brain…

His game needed to end. He couldn’t keep trying to destroy the threat of Sherlock Holmes, he couldn’t exist so long as the detective lived to thwart him. He couldn’t handle the emptiness, the sorrow, the loneliness not even nights spent in John’s arms could cure. Jim was broken, and sick to death of it. He wanted to find delight in his lover, he wanted to bring that joyous light into Johnny’s eyes, but he couldn’t even take care of himself.

John wasn’t boring. The game was boring. Existing was boring. No matter how happy John made him it wasn’t enough. He needed release. He needed an end.  

While John baked his cake and lit the candles, Jim made his way to Saint Bart’s with the pistol tucked into his waistband. John’s pistol. Unfair, it wasn’t fair to John but Jim saw no other way. No other exit, no other end to the ceaseless whispering and the shadows growing inside of him. John deserved someone full of light, someone who wouldn’t drag him into the depths.

All these horrible thoughts weighed him down as he looked over the city, picturing John waiting in their flat and growing more panicked. He told him he’d work late tonight; John wouldn’t ask questions about that. He knew the game was wrapping up, he knew that soon Jim would force Sherlock into action. Johnny was a good boy and Jim trusted him to keep his nose out of all of Jim’s business - but Johnny loved him, and after a while he knew Johnny would go looking for him.

He always did.

Miles away, John settled down to wait for Jim’s return. Late, he said. Jim returned home later and later in the last few months, but John didn’t feel like pressing it. Sherlock worked harder to ensure Jim’s work unravelled, so it made sense even if John found himself missing Jim more and more. The time they shared wasn’t enough.

Flicking idly through the channels, he didn’t know that Jim made threats against his life. He didn’t know Jim was coaxing and goading Sherlock into suicide. He didn’t know that Jim left with no intentions of returning. Perhaps if he knew, he’d be rushing to the hospital to stop him.

All he could do was wait, and hope, and burn with love for the most feared man in London.

For a brief moment Jim smiled, thinking of John in his warm jumpers and greeting him when he came home. He smiled in anticipation of the sweet release he’d longed for. He smiled, pushed the barrel of the gun into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Days passed before the news reached John. The cake lay in the bin, the candles occupied their usual space in the closet, and John sat at Jim’s desk and checked his phone by rote. He barely even saw the screen. No texts. No calls. Jim’s number rang and rang, no voicemail message, no answer.

It was Sherlock, knocking frantically at his door, that roused him from his near catatonic state. He passed John the black woolen coat Jim wore when he left. The collar, stiff with blood, drew all of John’s attention as Sherlock fumbled through the story. It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered anymore, John supposed. His thumb brushed the stain.

_Happy Birthday, Jim._

_The happiest._

****  
  



End file.
